


Terrible Ideas or: Why Elizabeth MacMillan does not need Phryne Fisher to make Bad Decisions for Her

by UniversesVisiting



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversesVisiting/pseuds/UniversesVisiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are hangovers, lipstick and roses and still no one gets laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Ideas or: Why Elizabeth MacMillan does not need Phryne Fisher to make Bad Decisions for Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Asked For It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799084) by [gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows). 



> This fandom is crazy. I haven't written anything for months and now I suddenly write 10k words in 2 days. All because you are all so amazing! I am very sorry for my English, btw. It's not my mother tongue and I bet you're going to find a lot of mistakes that I didn't catch. If anyone feels destined to play beta-reader, please feel free to do so. 
> 
> I want to thank gaslightgallows for allowing me to draw inspiration from one of her drabbles in her story 'You Asked For It'. I read chapter 23. 'Madness' a few days ago and then I stumbled across a prompt that made my brain go: '?!' and I kind of meshed the two of them together. Because she was so nice about it this oneshot is for her. Thank you for always writing such wonderful stories for us! 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who reads this for taking the time and I hope that you will have fun!

Elizabeth MacMillan is a morning person, no matter what Phryne likes to tell people. 

Mac is sure that her friend is simply jealous because, in contrast to the infamous Miss Fisher, Mac is perfectly capable of waking up at the crack of dawn and function for the rest of the day. In fact, she revels in the early start with which she likes to begin her days. 

It is because of this that Mac feels understandably confused when she wakes up and feels the sun hit her straight in the face, far stronger than it should be around 6 o’clock. 

Trying to open her eyes turns out to be a horrible idea. It seems the marching band in her head has only waiter for her to move and is now merrily barging its way through her brain. 

She whimpers and tries to turn her head (also a bad idea) into the cushions to ward off the sunshine but gives up on the idea when the pounding in her head launches into a crescendo. 

Staying as still as possible she swallows several times. And while her taste buds are trying to crawl away from her own saliva and her mouth feels like a peach that has been left in the sun for too long, she is glad to realize that she has finally found a movement that does not hurt her head. 

Breathing deeply through her nose Mac tries to take inventory of herself. She can feel her shirt cuffs and her cravat around her neck. There is something tangled up beneath herself and around her arms that can, with a bit of imagination, pass as her waistcoat. Her trouser legs, she discovers, seem to have been pushed up to her knees but at least her trousers are ON, which is all that matters to her at the moment. 

After three minutes of concentrated breathing the pain in Mac’s head begins to become bearable. Careful to avoid the direct sunlight Mac blinks her eyes open – and immediately has to blink a few times more to force away the veil of fuzzy shadows hanging in front of them. 

Her heart speeds up slightly and a mild sense of panic washes over Mac as she takes in her surroundings. Instead of her own bedroom at her flat she is looking at a large bedroom that is quite obviously inhabited by someone with wealth and a rather questionable taste. At least if the countless pictures of insects and the one showcase next to the door, filled with what Mac suspects are pinned butterflies, are any indication. 

Mac does not make a habit of waking up in beds other than her own, especially when she doesn’t know how she has gotten into them in the first place. 

Closing her eyes again she draws another deep breath, fortifying herself, before she dares to move. Her head gives protest but she ignores it and when she moves to roll from her side onto her back she hits something. 

Or rather, someone. 

Seconds tick by while Mac waits whether or not the person behind her will wake up but once she is sure they won’t she lets out a relieved breath. Only to curse, loudly, a second later when one of her hair needles, that has fallen out during the night, stabs her in the chest right beneath her breasts. 

This time there is definite movement behind her and Mac lets her head fall back into the pillows with a groan, as deep as she can manage with her parched throat. 

The person behind her, by now she is sure it is a woman, lets out a groan and a hand with long fingers and painted nails clumsily pats along her back. 

It is a rather familiar hand. One that Mac is very well acquainted with. 

The whiff of perfume that suddenly drifts through the air as her companion moves on the bed only serves to confirm Mac’s suspicion. Instantly all of the tension bleeds out of her body and she allows herself to roll over onto her back, this time not caring whether or not she pushes a limb or two out of her way. 

Phryne Fisher is laying spread angle across the largest part of the bed, one of her hands clamped over her eyes, while the other is holding onto the side of her head. 

Mac reaches out and lets her hand flop down on Phryne’s stomach. Phryne gives a little twitch and her hand leaves her eyes as she stares down at herself. 

Mac curls her fingers into Phryne’s dress when she feels the tension leave her friend’s body. 

“Well”, Phryne murmurs, her voice as hoarse as Mac’s feels, and her own hand reaching down to clumsily pat Mac’s fingers, “This was not what I had in mind when I invited you to Aunt Prudence’s shindig”

Finally she lifts her eyes and looks at Mac. Her makeup has suffered, a smudge of dark liner from her eyes here, a print from the pillow mashed into her cheekbone there. Despite all this, and despite the wince she gives when she moves too fast, she looks unfairly composed. 

Phryne, having apparently perused Mac’s face in return, reaches out and pokes at her cheek. 

“Phryne”, Mac groans, her limbs still too heavy to move with any sort of coordination, “Phryne stop that” 

Phryne in turn, pulls her hand back and says: “There is lipstick on your face and it is neither mine nor yours. You should probably wash it off before we are seen in polite company again.” 

Then a grin lights up her face and she says, in that fantastically annoying sing-song voice she had perfected when they had been children: “Did you have fun last night, Lizzie?” 

She draws out the last syllable for several long, trying seconds before Mac makes a grab for a pillow and makes a valiant effort to smother her best friend with it. 

When it becomes clear that the both of them are too hung-over to do much more than weakly mash the pillow against the other’s face, Mac lets it go and flops back down. 

“How did we end up here?”, she asks the ceiling while trying to convince her finger’s to re-develop the fine-motor skills necessary to fix her hair without stabbing herself again, “Unless your aunt has drastically redecorated this isn’t her house” 

When Phryne laughs Mac turns her head to look at her, one half of her concentration on the hair needle she has just found. 

“You don’t remember that we took a cab back into the city, do you?”, Phryne looks far too gleeful and Mac feels a sense of impending doom build up around her. 

She gives up on her hair and simply pushes the long strands out of her face while she fixes Phryne with the stare that has made countless people cough up their not-quite-legal medical history. 

It rolls off of Phryne like water off a duck’s back: “Oh don’t worry darling, you were perfectly civil and polite, right up until the moment that the door fell closed behind us and you decided that vomiting into my aunt’s rosebushes was a good decision” 

Mac groans, her hands going back to her eyes as if she can hide herself from the world: “Oh god, has anyone seen?” 

Another thought, even worse than random passer-by's seeing her occurs to her and she rips her hand down again to look Phryne in the eyes, “Did your _aunt_ see? She’ll never forgive me!” 

A feather light hand cards through her hair and Phryne’s tinkling laughter makes the headache pound a little bit less: “No dear, no one saw you. The legend of your iron stomach _and_ my aunts good opinion of you are quite safe” 

Mac does not whimper in gratitude but it is a near thing. It is not often that she overestimates herself like this, but it has been known to happen. Mac herself has no recollection of any of the times she lost it this spectacularly but Phryne has assured her repeatedly that she is a very chatty and quite affectionate drunk. Every single time she has sworn herself that it would be the last the one. To this day her promises have shown little effect. 

“Come now, Mac”, Phryne cajoles and keeps her hand in Mac’s hair, “I promise it wasn’t all bad. We took a cab and when we were back in Melbourne we met a group of fantastic young artists and you were adamant that we spend a few minutes with them” 

“And you didn’t see any reason why that would be a bad idea, what with me having thrown up on you once already?”, Mac asks dryly. 

Phryne grins unrepentantly and waves the objection away: “I wasn’t quite sober myself and you and that young painter from Bairnsdale were getting on famously. I didn’t have the heart to separate you” 

Suddenly her eyes zero in on Mac’s cheek once more and a grin that is more smirk than smile sneaks onto her face: “You know my friend, that painter was wearing a lovely shade of lipstick and now that I think back it was _awfully_ similar to the one that is decorating your face right now” 

Mac refuses to be embarrassed and says, all the while thanking heaven that she does not blush easily: “Well that is going to do me some good, considering that her choice in lipstick is probably the only thing I still know about her” 

Phryne pouts: “Must you ruin my fun” 

“As soon as you find someone else’s life to nose around in I will fully support your fun once more”, Mac promises solemnly before breaking into a grin. 

Phryne disentangles her hand from Mac’s hair and hits her in the shoulder: “Be serious Mac.” 

“Never, darling” 

Phryne harrumphs and begins once more to investigate their surroundings. 

It suddenly occurs to Mac that her friend’s obvious disorientation at their surroundings does not quite fit with the story Phryne has just told her: “Wait a moment.” 

“Mmh?”, Phryne asks distractedly as she rolls herself to the edge of the bed and starts rummaging through the contents of the bedside table. 

“Phryne”, Mac says, distracted from her inquiry, “Phryne is that a good idea? Who knows who this room even belongs to?” 

Phryne turns to look at her a deeply disapproving look plastered over her face: “Live a little, will you, Mac. And look”, she lifts a small bottle with an even smaller label on it, “I found us something for the headache” 

Mac snatches the bottle out of her hand before Phryne can open it: “Could you at least try to not swallow things whose contents you know nothing of, Phryne Fischer?”, she asks in exasperation, “Honestly, it’s not like I talk about pill sizes and the effect of forged ingredients for the sheer joy of it. Do you know how easy it is to make a cyanide pill look like medicine for stomach pain?” 

Phryne, who is, by now, sitting upright on the bed, the blanket still draped over her legs and lap, waits patiently and after Mac has run out of steam she gives her a second before she asks: “That is all very true, dear Mac. But… _are_ they headache tablets?” 

Mac throws up her hands and opens the bottle before shaking a single pill onto her opened hand. 

“By the way”, she says, while she prods the little knob and tests it’s consistency with her fingertips, “If you remember last night so well, how come you don’t know where we are?” 

She lifts the pill and sniffs it cautiously before looking back down onto the label. 

Phryne sighs theatrically and lets herself sink back onto the mattress, her arms splayed over her head and her hair falling down around her cheeks: “Well, I couldn’t very well say no when the group invited us to come drinking with them, now could I?” 

Mac grumbles: “We both know you are very good at saying no, if you only want to be” 

But Phryne simply keeps talking as if she hasn’t heard, “And I must say, they had wonderful wine! An excellent year! And they were all so nice. I hardly noticed the time passing” 

“Well if the wine was good”, Mac grumbles and Phryne ignores that too with the ease of long practice, won through years of speaking all over each other. 

“And well, when we finally decided that we should leave I confess I was quite unable to tell north from south, so we couldn’t return to the Wardlow.” 

Mac finally gives up on examining the pill and interrupts Phryne as she pops a second pill onto her hand: “I’m rather sure those are the pills one of our doctors at the hospital makes” she says and searches for a water source before she shrugs and swallows them dry, “Try them, I don’t want to die by myself if I’m wrong” 

“Just make sure that I have it engraved on my tombstone that for once it was not _me_ that got us into danger”, Phryne remarks dryly and grabs the bottle before downing two tablets. 

“You know”, Mac comments conversationally as they wait for the effect to kick in, “That _still_ does not explain why we are here” 

“Well, that is the point where I have to ask _you_ to shed a bit of light, dear”, Phryne says dryly, “because _you_ were the one who insisted we come here” 

Mac lifts her eyebrows and Phryne holds out her hands in surrender, “You were very insistent that you knew who ever lived here and that it would be a FANTASTIC idea to come in through the window. And then, I believe you fell asleep on the bed and I was too tired to drag you all the way back out into the street” 

She shrugs as if anything of what she has said makes sense and winks, “And here we are” 

Mac frowns, her headache now a distant but continuous stomping at back of her head that she can ignore. “I have no idea what made me say that. I have never been here before”, she muses and looks around once more. “No”, she decides, “I have definitely never seen this room” 

Phryne shrugs: “We’ll go the way we came once the pills start working and leave a note of apology. It’s not as if this is the first foreign bedroom we have woken up in” 

Mac groans again: “That does not mean that we should make a habit of it, Phryne” 

Phryne snorts and demonstratively spreads her hands across the mattress: “What they don’t know won’t hurt them” 

“They?”, Mac asks and Phryne nods towards the bedtable next to Mac’s side of the bed: “A married couple most likely”, she says and Mac sees the light of a challenge light up in her eyes that she gets whenever she has a mystery to unravel. 

“Cufflinks on his side and a folded razor and there is an entire section about Freud on the bookshelf on his side of the room and no self-respecting woman would read that drivel” 

Her finger wanders back over to her side and Mac props herself up on her elbows once more to see where she is pointing. 

“Make-Up”, she says and points out a compact of rouge and one of powder and several tubes of lipstick, “Very conservative colors but then, to each their own, I suppose. Jewelry”, a pair of earrings are carelessly splayed over the wooden surface and a pearl necklace was piled around the neck of a small bust, “And”, Phryne’s finger wanders towards a book on her bedside, “A book about the mating habits of praying mantises. The insects are most likely hers and-“ 

“No”, Mac says firmly and Phryne, disturbed in her deduction, looks up in consternation, “Phryne Fisher, don’t you _dare_ find a murder this morning. I know how this kind of thing ends. The next thing you’ll tell me is that their marriage is being reflected in this woman’s obsession for an insect that eats its partner during their mating. And then somehow her husband will end up dead and we will have to clean the entire thing up. No, no I won’t have it. Not today! Not with the headache I am having” 

Somehow Phryne manages to look at once sulky and hilariously entertained. 

“I wasn’t going to say that”, she tries feebly and laughs despite herself when Mac throws her an unimpressed look, “I promise. No murders this morning.” Mac squints suspiciously and throws Phryne one last warning look before she lets herself sink back into the covers. 

“I am tempted”, she states as she plays with the duvet, “To simply stay here until the owners come back and find us and throw us out. It would be less of a hassle than climbing back out of the window” 

“A fine scandal that would be, if the press got wind of it”, Phryne muses, the look on her face full of intrigue, “The both of us in a stranger’s bed, covered in lipstick and hair in disarray.” 

Phryne looks nearly dreamy as she contemplates the idea, “What a wonderful outrage that would spark, don’t you think so?” 

Mac regrets having started on the topic: “Forget it”, she says, “Forget I said anything, please” 

Phryne huffs and grumbles: “You won’t let me investigate, you won’t let me start a scandal, you won’t even let me make fun of you. A fine best friend you are” 

Mac rolls her eyes but before she can fire back the sound of a door slamming catches them by surprise. Two voices sound through the closed door: “-not as long as we are not all in agreement. I will speak with the board first thing on Monday Morning” 

It’s the voice of a woman, nasal and in a perpetual state of indignation. A man’s voice answers her but Mac does not catch what he is saying. The nausea has returned with a vengeance. 

She knows the woman’s voice. 

Phryne has her head angled to the side, as always completely unashamed of listening in on another’s private conversation. She must feel Mac freezing next to her, because she turns her head and frowns when she sees Mac’s no doubt horrified expression. 

“What is it?”, she asks, quieter than before but not nearly as quiet as Mac would like her to be. 

Frantically she gestures for her to lower her tone and hisses: “That is Victoria White! She sits on the hospital board! She can’t find us here, I’m on thin ice with the board as it is and she will have me suspended faster than I can blink!” 

There is a moment of silence during which only the voices of the Whites are being heard before one of them speaks again. “Aunt Prudence wouldn’t let her!”, Phryne’s whisper is filled with certainty but Mac snorts softly. 

She strains her ears to listen for footsteps of voices coming into their direction: “I would rather not capitalize on your aunt’s fondness for me when she will be furious that someone has ruined her rose garden. We both know that she will be irritable for a week about that, even if she does not know it was me” 

When the voices move _away_ from the bedroom Mac dares to move. 

She pushes the duvet off of her and takes the time to be grateful to Phryne for having found the headache pills. Looking around Mac finds her shoes and manages to untangle herself from her waistcoat while she drags them out from where they are half hidden under the bed. 

“Victoria White”, she mutters to herself, shaking her head in disbelief, “What on earth was I _thinking_?” 

“Not much, I’d wager. You were, as they say, rather out of it last night”, Phryne goes about divesting herself of the blanket much slower. 

“And will you calm down”, she mutters when Mac nearly stumbles into the dresser in her haste to put her shoes on. 

“I will, once you start moving!”, Mac hisses back and barely avoids strangling herself with her own cravat as she tries to fasten it behind her neck again. 

Phryne is laughing at her when she finally gets out of the bed. Her legs are bare, she is not even wearing stockings and for a moment Mac wonders whether Phryne has actually spent an entire night freezing to death or if she has lost them sometime during the night. Phryne, however, has already found her shoes and is pulling the heels onto her feet. 

Mac tries, once more, to untangle her hair and bring it into some semblance of order but in the end she gives up and simply pulls out the rest of her hair needles and pushes her locks into a tight bun instead. 

Phryne, for her part, is casting around for something: “Where in the world did I leave my stole? It fit this dress so well!” 

Mac looks around. With her hair needles held in her mouth and her fingers busy holding her hair in place she makes a humming sound to catch Phryne’s attention and then nods towards the side of the bed where Mac herself has slept. 

Phryne sweeps around it and lets out a satisfied little: “Ha!” once she sees the stole and picks it up. 

Draping it around her shoulders Phryne surveys the room and remarks dryly: “You know, I think it will be quite hard to conceal that _someone_ was here. That bed isn’t going to look untouched no matter what we do with it” 

“Just so long as they don’t know it was _us_!”, Mac hisses and tests if her hair will hold before she walks over to the bed and tries to get the bedding to lie flat. 

Phryne is grinning so hard her face must hurt as she watches Mac fuss with the duvet: “Six impossible things before breakfast Mac?” she teases and gets a pillow thrown at her for her troubles. 

It only makes her laugh harder. “Will you help already, you horrid woman?”, Mac hisses, working hard to conceal her own grin and to stay as silent as she can, “Do something!” 

Phryne apparently has no such concern and she is gasping with laughter as she tries to make her side of the bed look less disheveled: “What happened to ‘let’s stay here until they throw us out’, Doctor?” 

“What can I say”, Mac mumbles as she finally gives up on the duvet and straightens the pillows instead, “I _like_ having a job. Therefor I am, quite naturally, saving myself from an extremely embarrassing dismissal” 

Phryne snorts and mutters something too quiet for Mac to catch. She doesn’t have to hear it to correctly interpret the exasperated look on Phryne’s face as she shakes out her own pillow. 

A few seconds they spend pushing the bedding as flat as they can and once that is done Mac turns in a slow circle to watch for anything they might have forgotten. 

Phryne has the bottle of pain reliever in her hand and is rearranging the knick-knacks on the bedside table before she deposits the bottle into the drawer. 

That done she turns around but suddenly Victoria White’s voice sounds from barely two rooms away. 

Mac whirls around, grabs Phryne’s arm and storms towards the window. She fiddles with the handle until Phryne makes an impatient noise and nudges her away. A second later the window is open and Phryne has pulled herself up onto the ledge. 

“Ah, this is a problem”, she murmurs. Mac, throwing worried looks over her shoulder hisses: “What is it now?” 

Phryne simply points out of the window and as Mac follows her gaze her heart drops. 

They are on the second floor right above a patch of, what else could it be, roses. 

“I really don’t remember us scaling this last night”, Phryne mutters quietly and Mac feels like screaming. Phryne however is already touching something outside and curses quietly. 

“How do you feel about climbing and balancing right now, Mac dear?”, Phryne asks conversationally as she pulls herself up to her full height, her head and shoulders on the outside of the window. 

Mac looks around her friend’s legs and to the left. A ledge runs along the house, maybe half a foot wide and barely below the window level. She curses. 

“Not great but I should manage” she grinds out and Phryne nods and steps onto the ledge. It is wide enough for a pair of feet to stand on but Mac does not look forward to having to circle the house on it. 

She hopes they will find a place they can climb down from before one of them slips. 

She pulls herself up onto the ledge like Phryne before her, holds onto the window pane and straightens. 

It is only when she is nearly out of the window that she realizes what she is missing. “My jacket”, she hisses as the cold air hits her. She throws one last look back into the room and hisses in frustration: “And Phryne, you forgot your hat!” 

“No time”, Phryne whispers back, balancing precariously so she can turn her head and still remain on the ledge “Oh come on, Mac”, she hisses and tugs at her friend’s shirt to get her to move, “I will buy you a new jacket, let’s just go!” 

Still Mac leans down, determined not to leave evidence on the scene of their ‘crime’ but Phryne pulls her up and out of the window onto the ledge. She steadies her when Mac stumbles with the fast change of terrain and not a second too late. 

Mac hears the sound of the bedroom door opening and she and Phryne both freeze, pressed against each other in the midday air, with their backs pressed against the house wall. 

For a moment there is quiet, then: “Howard” Victoria’s voice comes out of the open window and her tone becomes more nasal with every word she speaks: “Howard! Come and look at this!” 

Behind Mac Phryne is shaking with suppressed laughter and Mac closes her eyes to calm herself, in vain, because she can feel her own laughter welling up inside her. 

She pushes against Phryne’s hold with a gentle elbow and Phryne hiccups silently but carefully loosens her grip on Mac’s waist as they shuffle around each other as quietly as possible. 

When both of them have their backs securely pressed against the wall, Phryne in front, they begin their slow and shaky walk along the balustrade. 

Mac listens back for any sign that Victoria White is going to come after them, but there was only silence. Unfortunately, the moment where the woman actually appears comes sooner than expected. 

Mac curses silently and snaps Phryne in the rips. She turns her head and Mac can see her mouth profanities as they keep inching carefully along the ledge. 

Victoria Whiter has her head stretched out of her bedroom window and calls towards her husband: “Howard! Howard they came in through the window! HOWARD!” 

Throwing an enraged look into the street Victoria moves back inside again. She does not even think of looking to her left or her right. 

Mac lets the air escape from her lungs, her heart racing in her chest: “This is madness!” she hisses at Phryne when they finally reach the edge of the house. “We are far too old to sneak around on other people’s roofs!” 

Phryne’s voice is muffled as she pushes herself carefully around the corner: “Nonsense! It’s like riding a bike! Once you’ve learned it, you never forget again! And we had a lot of practice didn’t we?” 

Mac snorts as she crosses the edge herself and feels a bit of tension slip from her shoulders once they can no longer be seen from the window: “You _would_ call it that. I’d call it traumatic memories that I did not need to make” 

Phryne laughs and it twirls through the air like music: “You liar. You were the one who planned half of those excursions!” 

At this point Mac has no defence other than to play deaf and dumb: “I have absolutely no idea what you mean”, she says and pretends not to hear the raised eyebrow she gets for that. 

She is so busy ignoring her that when Phryne halts Mac nearly runs into her before she can stop herself: “Phryne?”, she asks and Phryne nods her head into the direction they are going. 

Mac needs to crane her head to be able to see around Phryne but once she does she sees the problem. A stone gargoyle, maybe a meter tall stands in their way and there is no way around it. 

They cannot climb down at this point, Mac realizes quickly. There is nothing to hold on to and to jump will most likely mean at least one broken bone. 

“Well damn”, Phryne mutters, apparently having come to the same conclusion. 

“So, back through the window?”, Mac asks. She knows it’s a vain hope, but trying does not cost her anything. 

Phryne throws her a fierce grin over her shoulder: “Mac, Mac, Mac, where is your sense of adventure?” she asks her and stretches out a hand so she can grasp at the gargoyle’s face to hold herself up. 

“Bugger your sense of adventure”, Mac hisses as she watches Phryne climb on top of the stature. 

“Just so you know it”, she feels the need to inform her friend, “I will not risk my life to safe your silly head if you fall” 

Phryne laughs at her: “How often have I heard that from you. You shouldn’t lie so, Mac. I’m told it’s bad for your soul or something” 

Mac snorts with laughter and Phryne echoes it before she moves her feet. 

Then everything goes faster than planned and it takes Phryne exactly three seconds to lose her footing. 

Mac does not think. She lets go of the wall, steps onto the gargoyle, curls one hand around its head and catches Phryne’s wrist with the other. Mac steadies her friend against herself until Phryne has found her feet again. 

“Will you watch out”, she grumbles, but waits for a few extra seconds until she is sure that Phryne has her grip back. 

“See”, Phryne murmurs, and even though her voice is calm Mac can hear how out of breath she is from the scare, “I told you you’re a liar” 

“Go climb your stature Phryne”, Mac grumps and follows her friend once she is safely on the other side. 

As always, it is very hard to stay annoyed at Phryne, even with the headache that Mac is still having. It is especially hard when Phryne is radiating amusement as hard as she is right now. 

With the gargoyle behind them there is a long stretch of bare wall in front of them, disrupted by windows. 

Mac groans silently: “We’ll give them a heart attack”, she hisses as Phryne stretches out a hand that Mac catches to hold her steady while Phryne bends forward to get a glimpse into the house through the first window, “They’ll see us and die of the shock!” 

“Nonsense”, Phryne murmurs back and jerks her head forward. 

They hold onto the window pane as they move past the glass and Mac squashes a hysterical giggle when she sees them reflected in the window. ‘This is not the time’ she tells herself strictly. 

Two more windows go by without problem. 

By now Mac can feel the strain all the way up to her shoulders. Her fingers are cramping and despite the wind the sun is making her sweat. Phryne, at least, has the decency to look mildly uncomfortable.   
“It’s never this hard to break _into_ houses”, she mutters and blows a strand of black hair out of her face. 

“I suppose it isn’t for you”, Mac mumbles, “You do have more practice with breaking into things after all” 

She stops and breathes for a second and Phryne turns her head as she stops too. 

“Mac?”, she asks, a light sort of concern in her voice and Mac waves her off. “Be there in a moment, I need to catch my breath.” 

Phryne nods and she waits until Mac is sure she won’t fall off the ledge simply by forgetting to breathe. 

“The next time”, she says as they start their way again, “We are going somewhere where I don’t know _anyone_. This can’t keep happening. At this rate I’ll need something for my heart before I hit 40.” 

Phryne snorts out a laugh and peers into the next window before suddenly she flings out her hand. 

Mac cocks her head but freezes when Phryne mouths “Harold”, towards her. 

As they both hold still Phryne says, so quiet that Mac has to step forward so they are pressed against each other: “That just tells me that you need more excitement in your life” 

“That’s what you would say, isn’t it”, Mac whispers as she cranes her neck to catch sight of the man, “God, one day we’ll wake up in a police cell and not even your Inspector will be able to get us out of it” 

Phryne shrugs and murmurs into her ear: “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” 

“Would definitely be the first time we’d be in one together”, Mac gives back and Phryne smothers her laugh in Mac’s shoulder. 

When she has herself under control Phryne leans forward again and gives a thumbs up before she swings herself around to cross the window pane. 

Mac breathes deeply, convinces her fingers to hold her and follows. 

“Look”, Phryne murmurs and now even she is breathless, “A trellis” 

Mac looks at the places she is pointing at and wrinkles her nose as she sees the weak vines clinking to the grid, “Will that hold us?” 

“You, definitely”, Phryne murmurs, “We’ll try it one at a time” 

Mac grumbles something not even she herself understands and finally she sighs but nods: “Yes fine, let’s do it before we fall on the last few meters” 

The trellis, they discover, has been made for something quite a bit more substantial than the feeble green that lives on it. 

Still Mac holds her breath as Phryne, her grip strong but shaking from nerves, closes around Mac’s wrist. She hooks first her legs and then, after a precarious act of balancing that involves quite a lot of swearing on both their parts as Mac tries to keep them both upright, her arms through the grid. 

As soon as she has a secure grip she taps Mac’s wrist and then let’s go. 

The trellis creaks horribly, but it holds and Mac breathes easier as soon as Phryne’s feet touch ground again. 

Looking around Phryne gestures for Mac to come after her and Mac does, cursing herself, and Phryne, and alcohol and Mrs. White too, for good measure. 

It’s easier than she had feared and when Mac finally feels earth beneath her she let’s go with an explosive exhale: “Well”, she mutters drily as she swallows, “That was fun. We should never do this again” 

Phryne turns towards her and their eyes meet and then they are clutching at each other, nearly hysterical with laughter as they sink back against the wall. 

“HAROLD!”, comes Mrs White’s voice from one of the upper store windows and Mac feels lightheaded as she and Phryne shriek silently, tears of mirth gathering in their eyes, “HAROLD DO SOMETHING!” 

Once they can breathe again they look around and find that the place neither has a fence nor a wall. The street in front of the house is nearly deserted, not a civilian in sight. 

When behind them someone throws a door so hard they can feel it where their backs rest against the wall Phryne and Mac push themselves to their feet and, to the sound of Mrs. White screeching at her husband, scramble out of the garden and into the street. 

Mac coughs, trying to look like she has nothing to hide and probably fails horribly, what with the missing jacket and her face being red from exhaustion. 

“The Wardlow then?”, Phryne asks as she looks around, pulling her stole back into position and apparently orienting herself, “I fear Dot will be worried for us already and we really shouldn’t scare her like this” 

And because Mac has no better idea and Dot’s tea sounds like the closest thing to heaven she can imagine right now, she nods. 

Satisfied Phryne links her arm through Mac’s and throws a beatific smile towards the couple staring at them that is coming down the street into their direction. 

Mac forces herself to nod politely and daydreams about clean clothes. 

_________________________________

The sound of the door bell ringing is the most beautiful sound Dorothy Williams has heard all day. 

Despite having a restful night Dotty feels like she has been awake for more than two days. It is, of course, not unusual that her Miss celebrates until the early morning hours or stays out for more than a day. But usually Miss Fisher is courteous enough to call in or send word that she will not be coming home. 

With Bert and Cec out of town, Jane in school and Hugh busy with work Dot is quite glad that only she is left to worry herself sick. Meanwhile Mr. Butler had turned to polishing the silver and occasionally dropping by the parlour to make soothing noises. 

Now Dot drops her knitting onto the couch and hurries towards the door. Mr. Butler is still faster than her. 

“Miss Fisher! Doctor MacMillan!”, Dot exclaims, and she is so relieved that it takes her a moment to take in the picture that Miss Fisher and the Doctor make. 

Both of them are still in the clothes they had worn yesterday before they had departed for Mrs. Stanley’s manor. There are parts that are missing however: Miss Fisher’s hat, a beautiful white piece with a red band and half a hand full of feathers pinned to it and the jacket Doctor MacMillan had been wearing that had matched her waistcoat are nowhere to be seen. 

Dot does a double take when she sees that her Miss is also missing her stockings but resolves to simply scold her about it later. Stockings don’t come cheap after all. 

What really gives her pause though is the vaguely dishevelled state that the women are in: 

Doctor MacMillan’s hair, longer than Dot had ever suspected it to be, is bound up into a knot at the upper back of her head, strands flying everywhere, an up-do nowhere near her orderly style. 

There is also - and Dot feels her cheeks heat up as a horrible blush steals over her face - a quite distinctive lipstick print high on her cheekbone, slightly smudged but undeniable. 

The Doctor looks like she has not slept a wink, her own lipstick nearly gone, her eyes lined with circles and the expression on her face and the tick on her upper lip, speak of a profound need for peace and rest. 

Miss Fisher on the other hand is smiling, her make-up more intact than the Doctor’s but her hair is in disarray, hopelessly tangled in knots that make Dot despair just by looking at them. 

Her stole seems to have gotten wet somewhere along the way too, since it is quietly dripping moisture onto the front steps. 

Curiously enough the women’s hands are red and raw, Miss Fisher is sporting a broken nail and Doctor MacMillan has chafed half of her left palm open. 

“I am quite late, aren’t I?”, Miss Fisher asks cheerfully and Doctor Mac sighs deeply and shakes her head. 

Mr. Butler is the first to ask the sensible questions: “Would you like me to prepare fresh clothing or maybe a bath for the two of you, Miss? Doctor?” 

Dot unfreezes herself from her place at the door and waves the two women inside: “Come in, you must be so cold! Doctor, is your hand alright? Should I get something to wash it out?” 

The door closes behind them and the Doctor disentangles herself from Miss Fisher and nods: “Yes Dot that would be lovely. It’s not bad but I need to work tomorrow. Better not take risks” 

Dot nods briskly and watches as both of them positively collapse onto the sofas in the parlour. 

“I will be back in a minute”, she says, “Should I make tea, Miss?” 

“Oh Dot, would you?”, Miss Fisher mutters from where she has her head laid out on the sofa already, her lower legs and feet still on the floor as she strips off her shoes without touching them, “Tea sounds wonderful right now” 

Dot turns towards the Doctor whose shoes need a little more convincing and the woman nods fervently: “Please Dot, we need it right now” 

Her shoes clatter to the ground and Doctor MacMillan groans as she pulls her hair needles out of her bun and lets the hair tumble around her face before sinking back into the cushions. 

“I will never move again”, she declares. 

The only answer she gets is a warm laughter from Miss Fisher: “I remember you saying that once today already and look how fast you changed your decision” 

“I highly doubt”, comes the Doctor’s dry voice out of the mountain of pillows, “that you have Mrs. White hidden somewhere in your house Phryne. So I am confident that I won’t have to change it to run away from her this time” 

Dot can tell that she will get grey hairs just hearing about what the two of them have been up to (because she _will_ hear about it) and leaves them to their banter, shaking her head in fond amusement. 

Faintly she hears Miss Fisher ask for a bath: “Mr. Butler would you prepare two? Mac and me both need it”, and she does not let the Doctor get in a word edge-wise before she cuts her off, “Don’t contradict me darling, you know one doesn’t argue with a nurse and I can see your shoulders cramping from here” 

“Of course Miss. Doctor, I will see what I can do about a new outfit. We should manage handsomely with the clothes you have in Miss Fisher’s wardrobe” 

Doctor Mac’s defeated little grumble carries through the entire ground floor. 

Dot smothers her grin in her hands and makes her way towards the kitchen. It takes her little time to prepare a pot of tea (calming for stomach and head, she may not share her employers habits but she is well aware of them and she recognizes a hangover when she sees it, thank you very much) and a bowl of warm water as well as a small cloth that she boils shortly before laying it out across the bowl and a tub of crème for the abrasions. 

When she carries the tray back into the saloon she worries for a moment that the women have dropped off to sleep. 

Miss Fisher’s eyes are closed and the Doctor seems to have pulled her legs up onto the couch and both of them are breathing deeply and evenly. 

But Miss Fisher cracks an eye open as soon as Dot crosses the threshold and smiles warmly: “Thank you Dot”, she sits up, her hair even more of a birds-nest than before and reaches out to the tea cups as soon as Dot has set the tray down. 

“Has anyone called while we were gone?”, she asks as she first prepares her own cup, plenty of sugar and a small dollop of cream. She then reaches out for another and repeats the ritual, this time leaving the tea black after squeezing in half a spoon of lemon. 

She reaches for another cup for Dot but Dot shakes her head and sits down next to the Miss before filling her cup on her own: “No Miss, nothing. Jane is at school and Burt and Cec haven’t called in yet” 

Wrapping her hands around the cup she inhales the aroma and watches as Miss Fisher pushes the second cup she has made towards the Doctor who is still lying on the sofa: “Mac your tea” 

To Dot she says, “Well, that is probably for the best, did Jane say something before she went to school?” 

Dot shakes her head: “I don’t think she was quite awake enough yet”, she smiles indulgently and Miss Fisher laughs softly sipping from her cup and hums in appreciation. 

Doctor MacMillan grumbles and finally she sits up and pushes her hair out of her face before she bends forward and grasps the cup. “Thank you Dot”, she says and practically inhales half of her tea in one long swallow before setting the cup back down. 

Then she reaches for the bowl with water and soaks the cloth in it. Carefully she begins to clean the abrasion. 

The moment is disturbed by the shrill ringing of the telephone. 

“You can say what you want about us”, Miss Fisher remarks as Dot puts down her tea and hurries to answer it, “But you have to admit that our timing is fantastic” 

Lifting the phone Dot answers: “Miss Fisher’s residence, Dorothy speaking” 

Hugh’s voice comes from the other end: “Dot! This is Hugh. How are you?” 

Dot smiles, a pleasant sort of warmth rising to her cheeks as she answers: “I am feeling wonderful, thank you Hugh. We are just having tea” 

Out of the background on Hugh’s end Dot can hear someone speaking and Hugh coughs before he responds, more formal now. Dot represses her grin at the thought of the Inspector’s exasperated face, for no doubt is it him that has just reprimanded Hugh. 

“Dot, the Inspector would like to see Miss Fisher here at the station at her earliest convenience. He says he needs her to clear something up for him” 

Dot frowns and throws a look back into the parlour: “Hugh, Miss Fisher is entertaining company at the moment, I don’t think that she will-“ 

There is a short commotion at the other end of the line and a second later it is the Inspector’s voice that answers her: “Is it Doctor MacMillan?” 

Dot stutters out a: “Yes” wondering how in the world the Inspector could have known about it and gets a long and clearly exasperated sigh for her trouble. 

“Because in that case, please tell her to come too. That way I’ll only have to lecture them about their methods of extraction once” 

Dot is, by now, hopelessly lost: “Inspector, what-“, she begins but Inspector Robinson cuts her off regretfully: 

“I’m sorry, Miss Williams, I am on a tight schedule today. Please will you let Miss Fisher know that both she and Doctor MacMillan are expected at the station as soon as possible?” 

In the background Dot can hear someone shouting, a woman, clearly agitated and a man’s voice backing her up and she deflates and says: “Yes Inspector, I will make sure they will see you” 

She gets a short, but heartfelt: “Thank you, Miss Williams”, before he cuts the line. 

Puzzled and slightly frustrated Dot puts the earpiece back into the cradle and turns back towards the saloon. 

Doctor MacMillan has finished cleaning her hand and is now busy putting on the cream Dot had gotten for her while Miss Fisher is drinking her second cup of tea. 

“The Inspector”, Dot announces and watches as Miss Fisher’s head whips around, hungry for the news while Doctor MacMillan first looks at her and then proceeds to grin into her cream tub, “He wants you both to come to the station as soon as possible” 

“The both of us?”, Miss Fisher asks, and bends forward at the waist, “Has he said why?” 

“He said”, Dot explains while putting both hands onto her hips, “that he wants to lecture the both of you about your ‘methods of extraction’” 

Dot makes sure to put as much disapproval into the last three words as she can. In front of her eyes the women’s tired but amused faces turn into something that is far more akin to sheepish embarrassment. 

“Well?”, Dot asks, as strict she ever gets, “Will you tell me what you two have been up to or will the Inspector have to explain it?” 

Miss Fisher grins, unrepentant, and pats the space next to her on the couch: “Of course we will tell you, Dot! Sit down, this could take a while” 

Across from her Doctor MacMillan groans and buries her face in her now clean hand, but Miss Fisher is relentless. 

“You see”, she begins as Dot lets herself sit next to her and pick up her cup of tea again, “It all began when Mac vomited in Aunt Prudence’s rosebushes”

________________________________

“Burglars! In my home! IN MY BEDROOM!”, Victoria White’s voice reaches new heights while Detective Inspector Jack Robinson does his utmost not to wince. 

“I demand”, continues her tirade, “That you find whoever did it and bring them to justice! Indecencies, committed in our marital bed!” 

The woman is practically foaming at the mouth as she airs her grievances, just as she has been for the last hour. 

Jack resists the urge to palm his face and plasters another look of deep understanding onto his face: “Mrs. White”, he tries, “We have nothing to go on other than the items of clothing you have brought us. You said nothing has been stolen and that nothing has been destroyed. And apart from your bed linens”, here he gestures, a little helplessly, towards the sack on the bench in the corner, “nothing has been disturbed” 

Mrs. White’s face is red and her eyes are nearly throwing sparks: “Inspector this is a travesty! How can you expect me to be alright with the fact that _someone_ has been sleeping in our bed! No doubt up to nefarious things!” 

Her finger, formerly clutching at her coat now finds another target and points, damningly, at a pair of women’s stockings and a man’s jacket as well as two hats, one for a woman and one for a man. 

Just like the first time he had laid eyes on the items today Jack feels the powerful urge to wring the necks of two specific women. 

Instead, he tries to appease Mrs. White: “Ma'am, I assure you we will do our utmost to find whoever has invaded your home, but as long as nothing has been stolen or vandalized I would suggest you and your husband”, he nods to Mister White, who has been largely useless and seems to be as bland as the suit he is wearing, “go home and recover from the shock” 

Mrs. White throws him a look as if he is the lowest of insects but finally she sniffs in haughty disdain and says: “ _Fine_. I expect to be kept in the know, Inspector!” 

She makes a grab for the hats and the clothing laid out on the counter but Jack seizes the hats just as she reaches them. 

“I fear”, he says as he holds onto the hats for dear life, his other hand covering the jacket and the stockings, “that this is evidence and must therefore be kept by the police” 

When Victoria White looks ready to start shouting again Jack hastes to placate her: “We will, of course, keep you informed of the progress of the investigation, Mrs. White. But I would not hold out too much hope” 

There is a short silence in which Jack and the woman pretend not to play tug of war with the hats before Mrs. White finally lets go. 

“Very well”, she hisses and twists on her heel, “You will hear from me Inspector. Harold, we are going home!” 

Jack slumps as soon as the door closes behind them. 

From behind the counter he hears Hugh ask: “Can I do something Inspector”, but he simply waves him off. 

Just when he thinks he has recovered his equilibrium the door opens once more and Jack, fully convinced that the Whites have had another change of heart, groans and turns only to be brought up short. 

The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher sails through the door in a cloud of perfume and with a glowing smile on her face. Doctor MacMillan, arm in arm with Phryne, has a look of good natured amusement on her face but there is an extra swing in her step and Jack thinks that he sees a gleam of malicious satisfaction in her eyes as she looks back towards the door before both of them focus on Jack. 

“Hello Jack”, comes the greeting that has never failed to get his blood pressure to rise, one way or another, “What do I hear about you wanting to scold us?” 

“The term I used, Miss Fisher, was lecture”, Jack corrects and nods to the Doctor, “Doctor MacMillan, I was under the impression that you were a good influence on her” 

Phryne bursts into laughter and the Doctor does nothing to hide her own grin: “What in the world gave you that idea?” 

“Looking at the two of you right now, I have honestly no idea”, Jack grumbles and gives an exasperated grunt as Hugh waves a covert Hello to the women who wave back cheerfully. 

“The point, Miss Fisher, Doctor MacMillan, is that I have had Victoria White complaining to me for the last one and a half hours about the burglars that have invaded her home, committed unspeakable acts of indecency in her bed and left it in disarray before escaping through the window again” 

Doctor MacMillan’s eyebrows are rising steadily towards her hair line but Phryne is grinning and nudges her in the side with her elbow: “I told you it would be a great story” 

Doctor MacMillan rolls her eyes and looks back at Jack: “What in the world gives the woman the idea that anything indecent has happened in that bed?” 

Wordlessly Jack points at the clothes strewn across the counter, the stockings in particular and then at the sack full of bed linens spilling its contents across the bench. 

“She is convinced”, he tells them, trying for cold strictness and ending up somewhere around strangled amusement, “That a man and a woman have broken into her house to, for lack of a better word, procreate. She has also, in GREAT detail”, and here he sends them a look that conveys just _how_ much detail had been involved, and how _thrilled_ he had been about it, “explained to me the state of her bedding and how it is impossible for anything else to have happened there other than sexual acts of great deviancy” 

Phryne snorts: “Please. _Deviancy_. If Mac and I had gotten up to anything deviant in that bed it would have looked different, believe me” Jack does his utmost not to blush. 

Doctor MacMillan does not help his case when she plucks, first her hat and then the stockings out of his hand. The former she puts onto her head and the latter she holds up into the light. 

“She probably does not have enough imagination to know true deviancy from chaste cuddling. God knows, the fluids alone would have made the entire affair with the bedding”, she waves a negligent hand towards it, “much more awkward than it is right now” 

Jack’s head is on fire, he is sure of it and he coughs, loudly, cutting off whatever Miss Fisher was about to reply. Both of the women turn to look at him and he straightens under their combined amusement. 

“You should see for yourself next time, Jack”, Phryne tells him and Doctor MacMillan looks mildly horrified as she pats the stockings down for runs: 

“Count me out, please. That is the kind of cultural exchange I want no part of” 

Phryne’s face pulls into an expression of exaggerated loss before she shrugs and turns her eyes to Jack: “We’ll have to make do with each other then, Inspector” 

By now Jack is sure he will burst a blood vessel if this goes on. “Be that as it may”, he forces himself to say, “I would be truly grateful to the both of you if this occasion would not turn out to have a repeat incident.” 

“I can promise you Inspector”, Doctor MacMillan assures him and finally throws the stockings at Phryne who balls them up and pushes them into the depths of her handbag, “No one wants to avoid repeating this nonsense more than me” 

She reaches out and takes Phryne’s hat and gives that to her too before grabbing her own jacket. Phryne, for lack of a better word, pouts. 

She stares at the hat as if she isn’t sure what to do with it and grumbles: “Well aren’t we Nancy Negative this morning” before simply keeping a hold of the hat instead of switching it out for the one she is wearing right now. 

Jack closes his eyes and sends a plea for patience to the heavens: “We will most likely drop the case in a few weeks. Avoid wearing any of those clothes in public where they can be seen on you until then and please. If you have to go gallivanting around at night, try not to end up in other people’s homes again?” 

And suddenly Phryne is grinning again, this time directed at Doctor MacMillan who looks mildly embarrassed: “Yes Mac, I think that is a wonderful idea, don’t you?” 

“Good lord, you are terrible”, Mac grumbles as she shakes the jacket out over the ground, “Why am I friends with you?” 

A flutter of paper cuts off Phryne’s laugh and she is the first one to bend down and snatch it out of the air. 

Jack cannot see what is on the slip but he can see Phryne’s face and it changes from mild interested to blinding and obnoxious happiness so fast it nearly gives him whiplash: “Well, well, will you look at this” 

She fixes Doctor MacMillan with a predatory stare and holds the card out to her between her fingers: “I told you that painter liked you” 

For reasons that Jack is more than fine with not knowing, Doctor MacMillan blushes and snatches the card out of her friend’s hand: “What are you talking…” She trails off as she reads whatever the slip says and for a moment she looks unsure whether to be pleased or horrified before her expression settles into supreme smugness with just a hint of nerves: “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise.” 

She looks up and apparently Jack is not as good at hiding his curiosity as he thinks he is because she turns the card around and lets him read it. 

There is a street name as well as the name of a hotel printed on the cover. The backside reveals a time and a date as well as a very distinctive lipstick print in the upper corner. 

Once more Jack feels blood shoot into his face and he coughs and pretends not to see Phryne laughing right into his face. 

“Well”, Doctor MacMillan says, once she and Phryne are done making fun of him, “I guess I will be going.” 

She waves the card at them as she turns, the jacket neatly folded between her hands: “I have a date to prepare for” 

She hugs Phryne and nods to Jack and Phryne says: “You will tell me everything Elizabeth MacMillan or I will hunt you down and drag it out of you” 

Doctor MacMillan snorts but hugs her a second longer: “Whatever you say, busybody” 

She re-settles her hat once more and, as she walks out of the station, throws: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do dears” over her shoulder at them that catches Jack terribly unprepared, making him cough horribly. 

As Mac walks out of the door Phryne’s laughter follows her into the street.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Last night was a haze for both of us and somehow we woke up hungover in a bed that isn’t either of ours and also neither of us recognize this apartment we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us’ AU


End file.
